Draco Malfoy and Entirely Too Many Weasleys
by soymaid
Summary: Takes place postHBP and hence contains spoilers My summary is hampered by the need to keep the plot a secret. Suffice to say, Malfoy is entrenched, Hermione is on the other side, and being a doubleagent is harder than Draco thought it would be.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hi there, (potential) readers. Please note that this story takes place AFTER HBP, and as such contains many a spoiler. This is my only outlet for mulling over HBP in my mind, and is as much (if not more) for me as for you. Sorry. You really ought to get used to the idea that you aren't always the center of things. (Unlike Harry.)

Erm… happy reading.

_Breathe out, peace, don't think about not thinking about it, just don't think about it…_ despite Draco's best efforts, the carrot once again thrust itself to the forefront of his mind. Allowing his frustration a sharp exhale through his nostrils and a pursing of the lips, he refused to pause to further contemplate his hopeless failure. A different tactic, perhaps, would be more effective – or at least more interesting. Draco was getting heartily tired of this dreadful meditation.

_There is a turnip. Contemplate the turnip. It is smooth. It is white, yellow, purple… CARROT CARROT CARROT!_

Banging a fist on the table and with a snort of disgust, Draco decided a short break was clearly deserved. If only he had a teacher, someone to practice against, but he couldn't ask Snape, and who else was there? Draco had been immeasurably disappointed to learn, upon his initiation, that Potty hadn't needed remedial potions at all – on the contrary, Snape had been teaching him a skill Draco himself would've killed for.

Bad wording. Draco sighed. Bad wording.

He wished he could've been there. Not only to learn, but just because he disliked both Snape and Potter so much that their hate-filled relations would've filled him with satisfaction.

It was amazing, really, how stupid one person could be. The knowledge that Potter had even squandered this last gift from barmy old Dumbledore had been the unnecessary fuel that brought Draco's loathing for the boy up a notch, from "bonfire" to "everyone get out of the house, now, and someone call the fire brigade." Not to mention the gruesome twosome, ever-idiotic Weasley and the mudblood… well, he couldn't think of anything awful about her right this instant but certainly inspiration would strike soon…

But enough of this. Hating the Gryffindor airheads was pleasure, and this was time for work. Occlumency was the task at hand. He could not forget the Dark Lord's warning, nor could he stop himself from thinking these forbidden thoughts. Dad in prison; mum the captive of her husband's master; both of their lives in his control, easily ended as soon as Draco made his first misstep – these were not the thoughts that should motivate an ambitious young Death-eater like himself. He couldn't stop them, though, so trickery was the only action left to him. Without it he lived in fear that, during one of the Dark Lord's pokes into his mind, Draco might accidentally call him a rotten bastard and the jig would be up. (Even the discovery of Draco's particularly clever nickname "Moldywart" would probably get Narcissa a cruciatus.) He was on thin ice already, with his obvious reluctance towards the whole thing and what should have been unnecessary "assistance" by Snape. Not to mention his Master's not-inaccurate perception that, ever since that night of kindness and loyalty and begging and finally death, Draco had not once spoken to his erstwhile favorite professor, nor even looked him in the eye.

Then, of course, there were those traitorous thoughts of joining the Order. Those would cost him much more than a few moments of Narcissa's screams.


	2. Chapter 2

"Fred, dear – anything to report?"

Fred shook his head. "All quiet. I can't believe it, but I wish we had the old Snape back. Apart from the evil, that is. At least there was a reliable source of information – I assume." George had elbowed Fred in the ribs, on the off-chance that there was anyone currently sitting around the table who did not know of the twins' penchant for amateur sleuthing before they were quite admitted into the Order, itself, per se. "It _was_ good information. Judging by the actions of senior Order members, of course." Harry and Ron couldn't stifle their shared grin, but Hermione shocked everyone by suppressing a chuckle.

Mrs. Weasley chose to glare at her son's response. Order meetings had begun to resemble Christmas dinner at the Weasley household: as usual, Mrs. Weasley (who had asked to be admitted and could not be denied) was in command, Fred and George (the only resident pranksters since Mundungus' unfortunate but unavoidable jail time) would never quite salute, and Percy was characteristically missing. It was about the only thing any of the Order members enjoyed, now that their network of information had practically run dry and the state of affairs in England seemed to be getting, incredibly, more ghastly and grim by the minute.

"Harry, I know you're only passing through, but you have my son and his lady-friend with you and I do think you might find a few days to…" This was Molly's (admirable, in her opinion) approach to diplomacy, but it did no good. Harry shook his head.

"The cup took a lot out of us, but we're only a quarter done, if that. We have to leave again tomorrow."

"Sorry, mum." Ron added guiltily. "We'll send something."

"What, from Africa?" Hermione stared at him incredulously. "Are you off your nut?"

A bit scandalized, Molly asked Hermione if she wouldn't rather lie down for a bit. Hermione brusquely refused, choosing instead to commandeer the meeting and begin questioning Tonks and Lupin about their recent progress with the Teng-la, a rural tribe of hill-men whose habit of raising and training domesticated bogarts would make them handy allies. Ron and Harry exchanged a glance over her head.

Meeting was adjourned not a quarter-hour later, and both boys had the somewhat alarming but necessary task of confronting a cross-looking Hermione.

"Uh, Hermione, look, we know there hasn't been much time to sleep lately, and-"

"Ron," Hermione turned to him and leveled her best Madam-Pince death-glare, and Ron found, to nobody's shock, that he couldn't say another word. "I'm fine. Just drop it, alright?" This was good enough for Harry, who felt bad about it but made a hasty exit anyway.

"'Mione," Ron lowered his voice, "We're okay, right? You're still my – my 'Mione, yeh?"

Hermione gave a tight, uncomfortable smile. "Sure, Ron," she said empathetically. "Come on, let's get upstairs. I want sleep."

"Awww," Ron moaned, "You wanted to sleep tonight? Didn't we just do that last night?" This got him a genuine smile, Hermione turning around on the stairs to bestow it on him before racing up. He followed quickly.

Just before they fell asleep (how disappointing, Hermione hadn't been joking after all) she turned to him. "Ron?" she whispered.

"Yeh?" he croaked.

"Luna's doing some really good work, isn't she?"

Ron smushed himself further into the pillow. "Haha, yeah. If you learn to filter out all the nutso stuff you've got some real gold under there. She's probably our best source right now – why d'you ask?"

"So… that's why you were whispering so much with her, then?"

"What? Don't tell me you think I fancy Loony Lovegood – oh, don't try to act like it's mean, I know you wanted to hear it –" in response to Hermione's indignant huff at the nickname, "Over you? You've got to be losing it, 'Mione, really. I was… you know, how you always say it… 'enjoying sterling conversation concerning the Lovegood genetic psychopathology.' It's really just entertaining."

Hermione turned back to stare into his face. "Oh, Ron, really?"

"Sure of it," Ron responded decisively, and gratefully received a quick kiss as reward. When Hermione turned away from him again a moment later, he snuggled closer, ignoring that stab of guilt. He was totally sure Hermione was the girl for him, but funny old Luna, always batty and unashamedly so, had been fascinating him since even before he and Hermione had finally declared themselves to each other. It was nonsense, clearly – anything concerning Luna inevitably was – but Ron inadvertently found himself practicing a mind technique not too far removed from Draco's to get his thoughts moving in the right direction, before they finally spun away into space and sleep surged in to fill the emptiness.

Harry, in the next room, had a bit more trouble. He was worried, as usual, and (as embarrassing as it might be) this time it wasn't about the downward spiral of the Order into near-helplessness, or the daunting task of finding and facing three more horcruxes before Voldemort himself. This was about Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione and Luna and Hermione's suspicion and, on top of all that, Hermione's plain and simple unhappiness. Harry didn't get it – that is, the two of them were clearly meant to end up together. He didn't see why Hermione would be dissatisfied with that. Ron was great: funny, nice, loyal and sometimes endearingly helpless. Everything Harry could ask for in a friend. Everything Hermione should want in a bloke.

He kind of wished they could go back to just all being friends, though. Easier; better. Happier.

A/N: Don't like this chapter as much as the first, because unless you're a Luna-lover like me (I carefully monitor her every appearance in the series), this would really come out of nowhere. If you can accept the premise of it, then we're alright.


	3. Chapter 3

_Keep breathing even. Calmness. Calmness._ He was terrified.

"Young Malfoy."

"My Lord," Draco wondered as he bowed whether there was anyone who did not call him Malfoy, apart from his parents. Pansy, he supposed. Ugh. Merlin did he hope Voldemort wouldn't order him to marry that revolting Parkinson.

"I should assume you know the procedure. Do it." Draco nodded, approached his master, and knelt. All he could think about was carrots. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. At least carrots were better than—

Claw-like hands took hold of Draco's skull, and suddenly he was no longer in control. Memories flashed through his mind so quickly that each was barely an image: buying textbooks with his dad; sitting in Dumbledore's office denying all knowledge of the Dark Lord's activities, knowing as he did that Dumbledore saw through the lie; stupid Potter and Weasley and Granger laughing at him; laughing back at the mudblood's teeth that one glorious day; doing flying drills for his coach as the Malfoy parents looked on; watching Fenrir emerge from the cupboard and grin malevolently at a powerless Draco; stepping over a mangled body; Dumbledore's eyes, afraid for the first time, when Snape emerged on the roof of the tower; Snape pushing him along as they fled the castle; the feeling of having done something very wrong that could never be made right—

Draco gasped for air as the Dark Lord's mind left his.

"My Lord," he stared at the ground, "I can explain that. It was just a stupid youthful hesitation, I could never quite see how Dumbledore was such a threat, but that doesn't matter now and I swear I have no other such… uh…" Draco looked up fearfully, trailing off.

"You have done well – your mother was wrong to doubt your abilities. Certainly you owe Severus and her a great deal, but I can feel the hatred of our enemies so strongly that I am willing to forgive." Draco expected another sentence, but there was none. He had been trying to block out the presence of the others in the next room, but when the Dark Lord spoke of them, it was no longer possible to do so. He left quickly, before his emotions could reveal themselves. As he left the room, Knott, next in line, entered in his stead.

Draco turned to Narcissa, herself awaiting examination. "What did our Master mean when he said I owe you and Snape a lot?"

Narcissa's eyes widened. "I leave that for Snape to tell you, if he chooses." Ugh. Wait a second-

"Is this about that vow you made him take?" Draco's voice dropped dramatically for the word "vow." "To protect me?" Narcissa frowned in reluctance, "Come on, mum, the Dark Lord told me so he already knows."

Narcissa sighed, her face growing even tighter and more concerned. "It wasn't," she paused, glancing at the other Death-Eaters around her. "It wasn't only to protect you, Draco."

His astonished eyes met hers, and he understood.

Draco stood at the gate to the Burrow. He stepped through it, and his presence was immediately detected. Ignoring the alarm, he made directly for the front door. This was a risk in so many ways. Would the Dark Lord reward his ingenuity and initiative, or punish him for his secret desires? Would he be able to confide in Snape after hearing this new perspective? Would they accept him?

Would he survive his first encounter with those horrible Weasleys en masse?


	4. Chapter 4

Fearfully, wands drawn, they released the latch. The door swung open.

Draco Malfoy? What by Merlin was he doing here!

Considering he'd been the one to approach them, Malfoy was not very openmouthed. In fact, he stood there looking disgusted for over a minute before Mrs. Weasley ushered him inside with a fluttering and murmuring about "unsafe" and "dark." Harry did not lower his wand.

Malfoy's baleful stare concentrated itself on Harry and Ron. "What do you want?" Harry demanded. "What gives you the right to disturb a private gathering of family and friends?"

Malfoy shifted from anger to disdain. "Oh, come of it, Potter, I know about the Order. Did you really expect me to believe McGonagall is a family friend?" Minerva's expression grew even more disapproving. Malfoy showed no sign of being bothered at his overt rudeness to a former professor.

"If you won't answer Harry, then we'll ask again: what do you want?" Hermione's voice was deadly. Malfoy looked startled, not seeming to have noticed her before.

"Well, naturally," he said mildly, "I've come to switch over."

During the next few moments, while everyone else was still in shock, Hermione strode over to Malfoy, seized him and pushed him bodily out the door, then slammed it shut and turned around. "It's no longer safe for us here," she said sensibly. "Voldemort knows where we are. We've been very careless. Too many of us live here for business to happen here, too – even just for a day." Most of the Order members (and Ginny, who was not yet old enough to be in the Order but, with a little help from Fred and George, never found herself excluded) were dispatched upstairs to through a few things in a trunk and leave in a hurry through the downstairs floo. Harry, Ron and Ginny stayed with Hermione, Ginny slightly hesitant, given what Harry had told her about Dumbledore's death, Ron feeling protective in case Malfoy should decide to force his way in with more Death-eaters in tow, Harry feeling protective of Ginny.

"Ginny," Hermione gave her a grave look. "I know what Harry told us, but we agreed it wasn't enough to trust him. Right? You still think that way?"

"Of course," Ginny said uncertainly.

Hermione gave a half-smile, "'– It's just…'" Ginny began to nod, then stopped.

"No 'just.' It's Malfoy. There's nothing 'just' about him. He's really dangerous, even if he's here on his own."

"Heaven see it true," Harry offered. There was another moment among the four of them, and then three of them dashed off to pack the essentials while Hermione turned to quickly lock the door using several of the more advanced spells suited to that purpose.

"Bugger!" she heard from outside. She put her eye up to the peephole curiously. "Blast, bollocks, bloody… damn!" Malfoy was shouting and kicking a tree. Smiling slightly, Hermione did not move away.

"Why did I," kick, "think I could," punch, "make them," shove, "believe me? Wretched, awful, bloody… ugh!" He yelled. "You want to know something!" he asked the tree, rather defensively considering that trees are in fact mute. "I… really... hate… Harry… Potter!" At this, he turned and leaned backwards onto the trunk, landing with a frustrated thunk. Hermione inexplicably found herself unlocking the door, and opening it just a crack.

"These aren't our headquarters, you know," she ventured. He turned to look at her, confident she was lying, but she was not. "On the occasion we do happen to need a meeting place, it's not usually here." Draco tried to find an image in her mind, but there was nothing. She was not as unarmed as he has expected. "And no," she gave him a pointed look, "you don't get to go there. But I will say this:"

He looked up at her.

"If you have something to say," Hermione spoke solemnly, "We will listen. We may not believe it, or act on your suggestion – but we will listen."

Draco had to look at his feet. Merlin, goodies were easy to manipulate, he thought gleefully, choosing it ignore a tendril of gratitude snaking its way through his body.

"Oh, and Draco," Hermione called out cockily, "We've figured out a foolproof way to test for the imperius curse, so don't try it."

She shut the door after this admonishment, leaving Draco blinking on the front lawn. Then she gathered her belongings, confirmed her destination with the rest of them, and vanished.


	5. Chapter 5

Steeling himself, Draco knocked on the door. As seemed to be happening to him a lot these days, when the door opened he was met with a glower. This time the glower belonged to Severus Snape.

"You asked to see me, sir?" Snape, despite having requested Draco's presence, looked as sour as he always did.

"Now, now, young Master Malfoy," Snape gave what may have been a smile, but beneath his contemptuous sneer conveyed no joy. "Perhaps my message was inaccurately conveyed. I only wished to meet," Snape paused, considering, "socially."

Draco kept his eyes on his professor's. "Sorry, sir." Polite, gracious, conveying nothing. "I'll have Dilly whipped to prevent it from happening again."

Another oily smile from Snape. "No need, my boy." The door slid farther open. "Enter."

Draco stepped inside, and Snape shut the door after him. Suddenly on high alert, Draco tried to look around without making it obvious he was panicking. Snape strode over to the fireplace and threw in a handful of powder from a container set nearby for that very purpose.

"He is here, my Lord," Snape spoke into the flames, turning to face Draco with a smirk.

It occurred to Draco to note that dealing with the Dark Lord's followers was one of those few situations where paranoia was entirely justified.

"I could not let your mother know you'd be punished for your misstep." The s-sounds made Draco shudder with revulsion. The monster stepped out of the flames, raising its head to observe Draco. "She still believes herself safe."

Draco's blood ran cold. Forgetting all disrespect, he stared directly into those snake-slit eyes, in shock.

Voldemort seemed slightly mollified by Draco's response. "She still is."

Draco's body went slack with relief and suddenly, after the Dark Lord had let the silence hang ominously for a moment, gathered the tension of new and potent fear. "Is my father safe as well, my Lord?" No emotion, betray no emotion.

"I was pleased with your decision to take up your old master's place. He will not die." The Dark Lord cocked his head like a reptile, considering. "You did not, however, consult me first."

"My lord, I wanted—"

"Do not presume to tell me why you did it!" Voldemort screeched, suddenly furious. "Do you honestly think it possible that I do not know already?"

Draco bowed his head. "My apologies, my Master."

"It was a youthful mistake," the Dark Lord's tone was generous. "As were your _previous_," his tone hardened. Venomously he spat the word, "mistakes."

Draco began to hyperventilate. "Sir, I regret immeasurably my digression from your orders, I swear I will serve you better—" Suddenly he could no longer speak.

"Young Malfoy," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named seemed almost amused, which only increased Draco's panic, "You will not die today." Draco gave him a pleading, panicked look, unable to make a sound and desperate with fear.

Voldemort smiled cruelly, lazily extending his wand. "Crucio."


	6. Chapter 6

Draco'd had to be enervated after the Dark Lord had left. Even after, it had taken him a few minutes of shaking on the floor before he could even stand or speak. Finally, Severus had simply left the boy alone, and Draco had managed to sit and eventually stand on his own. Still wobbling, Draco made it to a chair next to a table and collapsed onto it. Severus silently gave him a glass of water – prolonged cruciatus tended to become more painful by draining the body of its moisture. After several glasses, Draco sat back, barely trembling anymore.

"When the Dark Lord asks," Severus offered, by way of apology.

Draco nodded. "Naturally." All those exercises had not been for naught; although he'd been slow to see progress at first, Draco's natural secrecy and mental discipline had ensured a natural aptitude for the hidden art of occlumency. Since his Master had last examined him, progress had been extremely rapid. Draco finally felt in command of himself; enough so that the thought of venting his rage to Snape passed gently and almost unnoticed through his mind before storing itself away for another occasion.

"There is another purpose to this visit," Snape began. "Your mother recently expressed her concern that you and I had become distant. She was possessed of the notion that, given our long relationship and your father's unavailability, I should attempt to remain close to you." Snape paused, and gave one of his often-used weary-of-idiots looks. "Despite your behavior of late. And here I'd thought I'd had my last of mothers' blind spots for their children after I could no longer teach." Draco felt a gentle poke at his mind.

You took my job, Draco thought. You made me look bad to the Dark Lord. He thinks I'm a traitor because of you. He threatened to kill me because of you.

Then Draco thought he might have overplayed his lack of concern for his parents.

He threatened my parents because of you, he added.

"I apologize for her, and for myself," Draco spoke politely. He and Snape locked eyes, and when they looked away only Draco felt triumphant. He knew about the vow, which made it slightly unclear where Snape aligned himself, but certainly not unclear enough to give the impression that Draco was anything but satisfied in the Dark Lord's service.

Snape pretended to be mollified just as Draco pretended to be repentant. Then the former switched tactics. He leaned in, and spoke in a low voice,

"Do you know why I did it?"

Draco was ready for this one. "I know you made an unbreakable vow. You were saving yourself. Oh, and me – thanks for that, by the way," Draco added insolently.

"You missed one." Draco once again locked eyes with Severus. "I also did it because I support Lord Voldemort and desire nothing more than his triumph over all the half-wit blood-traitors and disgusting mudbloods who oppose him."

Draco was thrown for a moment. "I didn't think it necessary to include – like telling you that you breathe in order to survive."

Snapes eyes flashed. "Perhaps I breathe because I like breathing, boy. Perhaps I breathe that I might cause unworthy witches and wizards to stop breathing! In any case, take care not to question my loyalty again, and I shall take care to hide from the Dark Lord the thoughts I discovered in you on the night of Dumbledore's death."

"On the night you killed Dumbledore," Draco corrected cautiously. You don't want to say it out loud, do you, Draco thought to himself (rather loudly).

"Yes, when I killed him!" Snape yelled furiously. "When I acted, instead of, for example, hoping someone else would so I wouldn't have to! Or, perhaps, wondering if I could take Dumbledore's offer to shield me and my family from the sight of my Master! Do you _ever_ listen, boy?"

Draco carefully allowed one last defiant 'more closely than you wish, I'll bet' to pass through his mind before sealing off his anger and conceding Snape's superior position.

"You're right, sir. I lingered. I was uncertain. It won't happen again."

"No," Snape agreed, begrudgingly offering Draco a glass of wine and starting on one himself. "I can see that." And Draco, as inexperienced a legilimens as he was, was able to ferret out a note of disappointment, which he quickly stored away to consider in the future.


	7. Chapter 7

"Enjoying my old post, are you?" Severus asked idly. Draco, sitting properly on a couch as if to cancel out the impropriety of Snape's posture – one leg dangling off the side of his cushioned chair, arms flung back over the other arm, head at an awkward angle – smiled uncomfortably in response. Draco's own wineglass had been emptied once and set aside; Snape apparently felt his reasons for drinking were dire enough to risk the vulnerability and truthfulness drinking usually evoked. Draco had never thought of his professor as quite the layabout type, but of course he'd never thought him the type to kill Dumbledore, either.

According to Narcissa, Snape had a reason. Was it enough? Academically, Draco began to wonder. To those on Dumbledore's side – or, let's not kid ourselves, those who followed Dumbledore and Potter – could any gain be worth losing the Headmaster? Draco couldn't really see it. Although, obviously, it was all of the good for the Malfoys. Draco smiled. All good for him. Sure, Moldywart – Voldemort – was watching him more carefully, as could be expected. But Draco had to admit that he personally owed the continued health of all members of his family to Snape's ruthless pragmatism.

Could Snape possibly still be in with the muggle-lovers? Draco shot him an examining look, but Severus continued to recline, holding an empty wineglass by the stem and looking on the whole (Draco couldn't help noticing), like a total slob. It was in fact beginning to bother Draco quite a lot.

"Professor!" He wanted Snape awake and alert, now.

Snape lifted his head and opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear his vision. "Merlin, Draco, what?" Momentarily surprised, Draco attributed Snape's manner to the alcohol and moved recklessly forward.

"How did you do it, for so long? How could you even pretend, make nice with that awful lot?" The words were venomous, but Draco spoke them curiously. Snape gave a short, bitter bark of a laugh.

"It gets easier with time. Of course, being an accomplished occlumentalist doesn't hurt," Draco refrained from mentioning that he had recently reached an impressive level of proficiency in that very art, "But after awhile, the lie comes naturally. You can almost think like the man they believe you to be. I wouldn't worry, Draco." He'd done it again, Draco thought in surprise as Snape raised his eyes to meet those of his pupil. "You're very disciplined; I've seen it with your father. You will… excel." At this conclusion Snape looked either depressed or about to be sick, and to Draco there was no ruling out either possibility. But the moment passed without any eventful bodily functions, and Draco burned to ask another question.

"Sir… do you think you'll ever be able to convince them that you had to do it? Maybe to save yourself, or to, you know, save me?"

Snape met his eyes and there was something horrifying in his face.

"No."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Sorry about the messups with Draco's thoughts not being italicized. Is it worth correcting? Ooooh, I am lazy. I'm also thinking of changing Hermione and Ron's relationship issue to something less Luna-centric: much as I like her, it just isn't plausible. I'm reloading this chapter because only after loading it did I notice all the one- or two-sentence paragraphs. It looked very bad, and I attempted to marginally correct it here. Oh, and for my all-purpose disclaimer, see my profile. Now, the story:

Hermione's eyes were shut tightly and decisively, and they would not open again until Ron told her – this time without that low grit in his voice that told her he was pulling one over on her – that they were about to land. Her arms were wrapped tensely around him, and she felt she had been on the edge of beginning to hyperventilate for a very long time.

"Ron!" she shouted, "Where are we?" Ron grinned, keeping his eyes straight ahead, but Harry replied before he could, mere meters away on his own broom: "Won't be long now, Hermione."

"Beautiful forest," Ron spoke, turning his head slightly so his words would carry to Hermione's face, currently portraying abject misery. "You should take a look!" Hermione emitted a moan that vaguely resembled the words, "Merlin, Ron, why do you always do this to me? Don't you think if I liked flying I'd have… tried out for Quidditch, or something?"

Ron looked amusedly over at Harry, who couldn't help but be entertained as well. "Not at all. Perhaps it was a secret passion." Harry snorted.

Hermione's voice took on a sly tone (beneath the slight squeak of hysteria) when she replied, "Secret passion, Ron? And what would you know about those, hmm?"

The next moment she shrieked and clutched more tightly, as Ron had in his embarrassment temporarily lost control of his broom, and turbulence had been the result. Ron cleared his throat, puffing with indignation. "I didn't… well it's not like it wasn't mutual!" he declared. Then caught his breath, and asked in a hurt-puppy voice, "Yeh?"

Hermione smiled, and her grip on him tightened even further in what was ostensibly meant to be a hug, but for Ron was in fact rather painful. Obliviously she murmured, "Well, obviously Ron. I knew it ever since third year, after smacking Malfoy, I've told you loads of times."

"So, what, you can prioritize better after doing violence to Malfoys?" from Harry.

"Naturally," Ron responded for her. "It's a release." This brought from the edge of consciousness something that Hermione had been thinking about for quite awhile.

"Harry," she began, uncertain, "Remember in fourth year, when you insulted Malfoy's mum and he got the angriest I can ever remember seeing him?"

Harry gave a quick glance over, but his confusion was lost on Hermione, seeing as her eyes were still shut. "Sure, what about it?"

"And then last year, in the girl's toilet with Myrtle… and on the tower?"

Harry's voice took on a bitter edge. "Where're you leading to, Hermione?" (Ron in a whisper added, "Better make your point, 'Mione.")

"Well, there's something going on in that household, isn't there?" she asked, carefully. "Or, there was. Draco's always a spoiled prat, around his Dad or otherwise. But he's overly protective of Narcissa. Suppose Lucius…" Hermione finally opened her eyes a crack, and stopped dead at Harry's expression. Heedless of the fact that he was now flying very quickly through the air, he was staring furiously right at her.

"Hermione," he said clearly and slowly, "If something's going on at Draco's house, if his family's been awful to him or whatever excuse you're about to offer, let me make it very clear: I don't care. He let death-eaters into Hogwarts. He, among others, is responsible for what happened to Dumbledore. I don't care what reason you give me, because for the stuff I've seen from him, there's no excuse."

She felt Ron nod firmly, though his tone was gentler. "I've got to say, 'Mione, Harry's right."

Hermione turned the other way and for a moment screwed up her face and thought she might cry, although perhaps it was only her eyes stinging from the wind. Then she turned back to be heard, but with eyes once again closed.

"I didn't mean it like that, Harry. Logically, if we can find his weaknesses, we can manipulate them, just like you and Dumbledore set out to do with Voldemort," she had said the name many times by now, on their travels. "I'm only trying to help."

Despite the precise calmness in her voice, when she turned away again Ron could feel her body shaking with silent sobs. He gave Harry a reproachful look, but just then they reached their destination, and other matters demanded their attention for quite awhile.


End file.
